So You Were Never a Saint, and I Loved in Shades of Wrong
by equalopportunityobsessor
Summary: Everyone knows that Sherlock's never been normal, but it's not like Joan knows how to say "I love you" either. So it comes as no surprise to her that he's the first of them to figure out how to say it. He is the genius, after all. [Just a little 'Elementary' drabble, born of too many hours reading poetry. However, this is really not that poetic (I think).]
1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, if she's very very lucky, he will speak to her in poetry; like a magpie, he delights in giving her stolen things - the shinier the better. He showers her in his adoration with other's words, as though he thinks (and he does think this, she knows he does) that his own words would be wrong, just like so much about him has been wrong for so long.

Freak. Monster. Robot. (These thoughts taste like ashes and murder on her tongue; She knows he has heard far worse.)

He thinks it would be wrong to compare her mind to one of her beloved scalpels - precise, dangerous, graceful and glinting.

He thinks it would be wrong to compare her hands sometimes to birds and other times to tungsten carbide.

He thinks it would be wrong to tell her that he loves her hair at least as much as (maybe more than) he loves the entirety of the rest of her, and that if she were only to twine it around his wrist, he would gladly follow a step behind her for the rest of his life.

And so he gives her words, about her intense fragility, and how his heart has taken root in his body but he doesn't have a name for it.

She would prefer his words, of course she would. Her heart almost explodes against her ribs when he says she is exceptional, even though he always knew it was true and she knows that it shouldn't be. Still, until the day he can look her in the eye and tell her that he doesn't care if it hurts to be near her, so long as he gets to be near her, she will cherish and covet his stolen poetry.

Maybe, if she's very very lucky, one day, he will bring her flowers.

_Hello, beloved readers, this is your captain speaking. Thank you so much for taking time out of your lives to read this ridiculous thing that terrorized my brain until I wrote, typed, edited and published in the space of an hour. Comments and concrit are selfishly adored. _

_Poetry borrowed from 'somewhere i have never traveled', by e.e. cummings, and 'You Are Jeff' by Richard Siken, title from Taylor Swift's 'State of Grace' (if you give it a listen, listen to the acoustic version). _


	2. Chapter 2

_The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell. Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time._

Desire isn't a mystery to Sherlock - after all, very few things are, and those things are not things so simple as want. Sherlock is intimately familiar with every kind of want.

**want(v): to feel a need or desire for. synonyms: require, crave. (Revere. Worship.)**

That's the part that's new to Sherlock. This feeling, it isn't want. It's… worse than that. He supposes that (if he were the kind of man with a favourable opinion on religion and religious texts and _rules)_ one might say he covets.

He doesn't understand coveting.

**covet(v): to desire wrongfully, inordinately, or without due regard for the rights of others.**

He doesn't understand Watson.

**Watson(proper n.): unwanted babysitter, companion, assistant, partner**

(What could possibly come after partner? He's sure she'll show him. She's wonderful like that.)

(He doesn't understand coveting Watson.)

For example: The Failure Box.

It would be so easy to think that Watson was exhilarated by the opportunity to best him, to trample him beneath her exquisite shoes...

But that would be wrong, the idea so excruciatingly disgusting, he wishes he could pull his nervous system out through his fingertips just for having the thought.

He doesn't quite know what it is about Watson-and-cases that makes him feel like his skin is too small, but he does know that it's the closest to peace he will ever be.

So he lets Watson carry the most broken pieces of himself.

'A professional angel to perch on your shoulder,' Moriarty_Irene_ had said.

Sherlock looks up, finds Watson in a heartbeat - she's lovely like that - always where he needs her, never where he puts her.

She looks up too, in the next second, and smiles when she sees that he is looking.

**Entry 346; 20:34, 23/01/2014. Occurrence: Simultaneously sought-after eye contact. Environmental Conditions: Baseline. Stimuli: Undetected. Response: Typical (see entries 1-present). Conclusion: Requires further analysis**

He clears with throat. Her smile now is different than before.

**Entry 347; 20:35, 23/01/2014. Occurrence: Mood shift. Environmental Conditions: Baseline. Stimuli: Throat Clearing; Indicative of preparation to broach sentimental topic. Response: Smile #12 (Anticipatory) to Smile #34 (Indulgent). Conclusion: Requires further analysis.**

'Professional Angel' - not even close.

"'You're not like a tree, where the roots have to end somewhere, you're more like a song on a policeman's radio'," Sherlock quotes.

"'These, our bodies, possessed by light'," she quotes back, returning her attention to an old case file, "'Tell me I'll never get used to it.'"

Sherlock knew she understood.

_Hello, my doves! Thanks for reading. This was not supposed to be a thing with more than one chapter, hence why there is no plot to speak of between chapters 1 and 2... nor will there ever be a plot! This is my slashy guilty pleasure, born when I had to look up the definition of the word 'covet' to decide whether it translates properly..._

_The opening line is from 'Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out', by Richard Siken, and Holmes' and Watson's exchange at the end paraphrases (read, steals blatantly from with some edited pronouns) 'Scheherazade' by Richard Siken._


End file.
